


The Mystery of the Human Heart (The Encounter at St Pancras Station)

by magnetic_pole



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, POV John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 04:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13092087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetic_pole/pseuds/magnetic_pole
Summary: Being the record of a single, chance encounter that offered me a glimpse into my own heart and that of Sherlock Holmes





	The Mystery of the Human Heart (The Encounter at St Pancras Station)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Small Hobbit for the Winter 2017 Holmestice exchange. Many thanks to S and F for their help bringing this story into the world.

May 1902

_Deep in the vaults of the venerable Cox and Co. lies a battered tin dispatch box in which I save notes and various papers documenting those cases of Sherlock Holmes which are deemed too delicate for publication: the matter of the aluminium crutch, for example, the Odessa Murder, the horrific affair involving the giant rat of Sumatra. I keep the box because one day Holmes may relent and allow publication, and while I myself certainly itch to tell these stories, I know that an even more eager audience awaits their appearance. Indeed, hints of Holmes’ untold adventures have aroused such keen interest among the public that shortly after I mentioned the box’s existence in casual conversation at my club, the managing director of Cox and Co. reported an attempted break-in at the vault in the Charing Cross location where the box is stored._

_The story I am about to tell will remain unpublished, but it is not one of those destined for the dispatch box. In fact, as it concerns the great Holmes only peripherally, no one is likely to take an interest in it at all. No matter. I have another place for safe storage of stories like these, stories that lack Holmes as a protagonist: an old, water-damaged edition of_ Gray’s Anatomy _which was given to me during my first year in medical school. It has long since been supplanted in my library by more modern editions, and this one I retain on a bookshelf in my bedroom only because of the sentiment I attach to it. It is, thus, perfect for its role as a repository for reflections on my own life—close at hand and virtually invisible to Holmes, mine alone as few things in Baker Street are._

***

The Encounter at St Pancras

The spring of 1902 had passed mainly fair and dry, but the same could not be said of the climate in the rooms Sherlock Holmes and I shared in Baker Street. My greatest friend and I had been at odds for months—sparring, sniping, squabbling over trifles. The situation puzzled me, for we were now in our second decade of cohabitation, and we had long since settled into comfortable habits together. I would see an advertisement for a performance at Wigmore Hall and know immediately whether it would be an effective antidote to his latest black mood. He had acquired a working knowledge of the latest research on neurasthenia to better help my own investigations into this nebulous disease. We knew each other’s preferences for tobacco, tea, newspapers, and clients. Much more during these past nine years than the first time we had lived together, Holmes and I had developed a queer sort of domesticity, a domesticity not unlike that which I had shared with Mary. 

Holmes’ work progressed apace. Not only had he settled the very last details relating to the affair of the unfortunate Colonel Carruthers with remarkable efficiency, but a knighthood had been offered for his remarkable services. Holmes, for reasons known only to himself, had declined it. That was his right, certainly, and I had no claim to involvement in the decision. I had, however, heard rumours of disappointment among the many hard-working members of the police force whose supplementary efforts so often made Holmes’ most brilliant deductions possible; the knighthood would have recognized their work, however indirectly. Not that he would have cared. He had settled into a withdrawn and meditative state that spring, and with the exception of the young Stanley Hopkins, few of his old friends at the Yard roused his interest. 

Hopkins’ frequent visits, I must admit, may have been one of the causes of the dreary climate which had overcome our lodgings. A promising young inspector at Scotland Yard, Hopkins was an aficionado of the microscope and of forensic science more generally, and he and Holmes spent hours debating over various evidential techniques. They had the rather irritating habit of speaking to one another excitedly in a semi-secret language filled with the names of chemical compounds. Hopkins called round at all hours, and Holmes flushed visibly at the young man’s effusive praise as if no one had ever expressed admiration for his work before.

In short, the young Hopkins seemed to be under foot constantly.

And I? I had begun writing again after a nine-year hiatus. In the spring of 1902, I was enjoying the publicity that came with the successful conclusion of a novel-length story that had been serialized in _The Strand._ Had the recent success of _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ come between us? Was he irritated that I had resurrected him on paper and begun to write about his detective work again? 

Certainly no one had been happier than Holmes when, during the darkest days of Mary’s illness in the Nineties, I decided to dispose of his literary counterpart. He had conceived of Professor Moriarty over a single evening in our customary chairs in Baker Street, had decided upon the means of his own death, had even helped me plot out "The Final Problem," gleefully sketching out a diagram of story events far more complex than I had ever used. "It will be a great weight off your mind, Watson," he had said, affecting sympathy but also transparently pleased to put the era of publication behind him. ("You can resurrect him later, when all this is over," Mary had said when I told her of Holmes’ literary death wish, a hint of amusement in her voice.) 

But for all the relief he had expressed at his fictional demise, for all the criticisms he had made of my "romantic embellishments" over the years, for all the sighing and eye rolling that inevitably accompanied the appearance of _The Strand_ in the hand of a client or a young provincial policeman—for all that, Holmes had never begrudged me my hobby. What had changed?

***

Matters came to a head one sunny day in mid May, not long after we finished our breakfast. Holmes was at work at his microscope. After more than an hour, he straightened himself up and looked round at me in triumph.

"It is glue, Watson," he said. "Unquestionably it is glue. Have a look at these scattered objects in the field!" 

I stooped to the eyepiece and focussed for my vision. 

"Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat," he said. "The irregular gray masses are dust. There are epithelial scales on the left. Those brown blobs in the centre are undoubtedly glue." 

"Does anything depend upon it?" Brown blobs were not my idea of a satisfying resolution to a compelling mystery.

"It is a very fine demonstration," he answered. "In the St Pancras case you may remember that a cap was found beside the dead policeman. The accused man denies that it is his. But he is a picture-frame maker who habitually handles glue." 

"Damning evidence, a bit of glue," I said. "We all shed skin. We all wear tweed. We might all be guilty in this matter." It came out sharper than I intended. 

"Indeed it is," Holmes said, narrowing his eyes. "It places him at the scene of the crime. Hopkins will be delighted to hear this news."

Hopkins. I snorted and retreated behind my newspaper.

I needed an evening away from the flat. I sent a telegraph to my old friend Stamford, who had lately set up house in St Albans with his wife Anna, who, quite coincidentally, had been among the very first students at Lady Margaret Hall, just as Mary had been. They had been a great comfort to me in the years after Mary’s death, two people who had known Mary and me in happier times. I had neglected Stamford recently, though Anna still wrote to me about once a month to share news and inquire after my health.

As I knew he would, Stamford responded immediately with an invitation to dinner that night. WIFE RECENTLY MENTIONED NEED OF INTELLIGENT CONVERSATION STOP YOU WILL DO SPLENDIDLY STOP OUR HOUSE AT EIGHT STOP.

I located a book to read on the train and announced my intentions to dine out that evening.

***

Holmes has always been a true denizen of London, chary of cases that require an extended stay elsewhere, reluctant to accept an invitation to leave at the week-end. I, on the other hand, have always loved the excitement of travel. There is nothing quite like the sight of the Great Midland Hotel’s magnificent façade rising up as one’s cab approaches St Pancras Station via the Euston Road. The mundane ephemera of London—the soap advertisement on the omnibus, the dead horse on the pavement, the stained and soiled remains of yesterday’s newspapers wadded in the gutter—all of that vanishes in face of this splendid building. Its architecture is of the last, great generation: muscular, polychromatic, marked by an abundance of arches, spires, and carved detail. I had seen its cousin under construction in Bombay en route to Afghanistan when I was a much younger man, and I dreamed of returning one day and boarding a train to explore the subcontinent.

Tonight’s destination was only a modest suburban house in St Albans, to be sure, but even a journey to the suburbs awoke the romantic in me. I was a different man on the railroad, an optimist and an explorer. As I bought my ticket, I fancied myself a young lad on his first railway journey. To Manchester, to seek his fortune in textiles? To Liverpool and ports beyond?

I was walking out of the ticketing area when I noticed a strange sight: a handsome dark-haired young woman sitting on a bench, staring silently at a clean patch of floor near the wall. All around her the crowd flowed, bustling, chattering, in a hurry. 

I knew immediately who she was. Holmes would have known, too. Among the many details that might have led him to the same conclusion: the lingering smell of bleach in the air; the harsh scratches on both the marble tiles and the wooden wainscoting; the damp, knotted handkerchief discarded on the bench; the woman's tidy appearance save a mismatched button at the back of her neck. (Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself on the details.)

I did not need to observe these details, though. One look at the women’s face—drawn, devastated, drained—told me she was connected to the death that had recently taken place here. No other explanation was possible. 

I offered her my handkerchief and my sympathies.

She observed me with a keen, even wary eye. If I had expected further tears, I had misjudged her. "Do you know the story?" she asked.

I thought of Holmes leaning over his microscope, searching for glue molecules. "Only through rumour," I said. "Not in any detail."

"A policeman was killed here last week by a man who struck him," the woman said, her voice even and her features composed. "There was an altercation, and he fell against this wall, hitting his head. He—" She paused for a moment and took a deep breath. "He bled profusely. He died before help arrived."

Her lucidity and steadiness in the face of tragedy were remarkable. In a way, she reminded me of Mary, whose gentle nature also concealed a steely character.

"I am so very sorry," I said. Was the policeman her father? A brother? Her betrothed? (It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence, Watson.) Her deep concentration at the scene of the crime suggested contemplation of a great and startling loss. 

"The policeman was my brother," the woman said. "And the man who attacked him was my financé."

Her name was Dora Bennet, and she and an aspiring young artist named William Thompson had fallen in love two years earlier. Miss Bennet ministered to the poor at a settlement house in the East End; Mr Thompson worked as a picture-frame maker in Soho and attended lectures at the Royal Academy in hopes of starting a career as a painter. Trapped by his long hours and modest wages, Mr Thompson was unable to wed Miss Bennet or devote sufficient time to his painting. They had resolved to emigrate, travelling first to Manchester to stay with Miss Bennet’s sister before departing on the White Cross in a fortnight’s time. 

Her sister, however, had given up these plans to Miss Bennet’s disapproving mother, who had sent her brother Thomas, the policeman in question, to stop the couple before they left London. Desperate at the thought of missing his train—or, even worse, losing his financée to familial disapproval—Mr Thompson lashed out at Mr Bennet. The two tussled, and an awkward fall killed the man Mr Thompson might have one day have called a brother. 

She had returned to the station that evening to convince herself of the reality of the events that had just befallen her and gather strength to support her fiancé, who had recently been arrested. "In endeavouring to protect me, the two men I know best have destroyed me entirely," Miss Bennet concluded. "Dear God," she added, whispering. "He is sure to hang."

I thought again of Holmes leaning over his microscope, of Inspector Hopkins stopping by to discuss the results. There was no adventure here, no puzzle, only human tragedy. Nothing for Holmes, but perhaps I could help this extraordinary woman.

"You cannot know what the future holds," I said. "Take comfort in the mitigating circumstances. They shall surely help his case." Then, because I could not think of any other way to comfort her: "You should know that my name is Dr John Watson," I said. "In case you find yourself—"

She looked at me sharply. "In case I find myself…lonely? No, thank you."

It struck me in the gut, the indictment contained in her words. For a moment, indignant, I could not speak. Defence after defence leapt to mind. I had spoken to her with nothing but respect. I had no ulterior motives. I had only meant to offer comfort. 

But there was some truth to what she said, too, some very small amount. I was interested in this woman. Her bearing and intelligence impressed me. In other circumstances, in very different circumstances, I would try to see her again. I had almost forgotten what this felt like, this first stirring of romantic interest. I thought it had died with Mary. 

My heart twisted painfully. 

I composed myself and spoke with all the mild-mannered avuncular concern I could summon. "I only meant to offer the name of a sympathetic medical man, if you should find yourself in need of one. You have suffered a great shock and a great loss."

She eyed me for a long moment, weighing my motives. I could tell her suspicions had finally ebbed when her shoulders relaxed. "The name of a sympathetic solicitor is likely to be more helpful," she said at last. 

I almost laughed. She was right. Indeed, my dear Mary might have said the same thing. 

I fumbled among my things and located a scrap of paper on which I could write down the name of a well-known elderly solicitor whose help I could count on. Recently the solicitor’s errant son had avoided time in gaol because while investigating a completely different matter Holmes had stymied a foolish embezzlement scheme in the earliest stages. Holmes, disgusted at the entire situation, had refused payment, but I suspected that the solicitor was still eager to repay his debts.

"This man may or may not recognize the name John Watson, but he is certain to respond to that of Sherlock Holmes," I said. "He will help you. I can assure you that your fiance’s defence will be the best defence possible." 

Her eyes widened. "Dr Watson!" she exclaimed, clearly flustered. She glanced at the slip of paper I had handed to her. "Thank you. I—thank you."

I glanced at the time. I had missed the train I intended to catch; another would depart in three minutes. I rose to leave. 

"I am truly fortunate that we met today," Miss Bennet said. "I will remember the help you offered."

"And I will remember your courage," I said. "Good-bye."

***

I boarded the 7:06 train with mixed emotions and an uneasy heart. I realized the truth now: nine years after Mary’s death, I was ready to fall in love again. Dora Bennet had seen through my concern and sensed something else there, however dim and inchoate. I was capable of marrying again, of being a husband again. I had not thought it possible.

I watched the telegraph poles approach and recede in a regular rhythm as the smoke of the city faded away. Brick walls gave way to leafy gardens and the modest shelters of the suburban railway stations. I opened the book I had brought and rested it on my knee.

Had Holmes sensed that I had wearied of a bachelor’s life in our shared rooms in Baker Street? That I had been longing for the warmth of a home and a wife again? Was that the source of his withdrawn and melancholy mood? Or of my irritation with him?

Perhaps. But herein, I realised, lay the true mystery: as much as I longed to love again, I felt a deep dread at the thought of leaving Baker Street and abandoning Holmes, who would be deeply hurt by my departure. I knew this as surely as I knew my own name, though I could not say why. It was not rational in the least. Holmes was uninterested in women, or marriage, or domesticity. He favoured silence over conversation. He took genuine delight in the company of his scientific instruments and suffered visitors to the flat only reluctantly. He would disappear into the city or into his own mind for days on end, temporarily but completely ignorant of my existence. He hated polite society; he hated polite conversation; he tolerated me only because—

I was not sure why he tolerated me. But he did more than tolerate me; he genuinely enjoyed my company. My departure would mark the end of something larger than either of us. I could not bear the thought of it or the pain it would cause him.

I fell into ruminations myself, neglecting the book on my knee as I watched the suburbs pass by and the daylight fade. I was, in fact, surprised when my train arrived at St Albans two minutes ahead of schedule, and I disembarked with my unread book tucked under my arm.

I whistled for a cab and had already begun to climb aboard when a shiver of recognition ran up the back of my neck. 

"Driver?" I asked. "Show yourself!"

The cab driver, a wizened older man at first glance, straightened up and pushed his cap back so I could see his face clearly. 

"Holmes!"

"You are not usually so quick to see through my various disguises," he said, pulling off the cap altogether. "Have I fallen out of practice?"

"I grow more perceptive each time," I countered. "Today, it was an overly dramatic crook to your back that tipped your hand."

"Aha."

"How did you—"

"Surely you can work it out?" Holmes asked. "At half nine you gave me the most malevolent glance I have seen in years, and twenty minutes later you left to send a telegram. You began to reread that article on neurasthenia that bothered you so much last week, clearly working yourself up into a lather, and when a response to your telegram arrived, you immediately announced that you would not be dining in our rooms this evening."

"But how did you know I would visit Stamford, of all people?"

He sighed, but I saw a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. He gestured at the book under my arm. "Dinner in town would not require a book; a railway journey to a home in the suburbs, however brief, would. Stamford was thus the most likely candidate. My only miscalculation was the time of the train. I arrived and secured the cab half an hour ago, expecting you to arrive on the previous train."

"Indeed." I nodded.

"Also," he said more gently, "Mary has been much on your mind recently. Speaking with Mrs Stamford is always a source of comfort and advice for you."

I glanced at him, surprised. Trust Holmes to deduce the contents of my own heart before I did.

"I am not completely ignorant of things that happen above the molecular level," he said, and I laughed.

Holmes turned back to his temporary occupation and snapped his whip. The cab began to move, travelling down Victoria Street, past the Town Hall, and on to the Stamford residence. 

"Fix your necktie, Watson," Holmes said as we finally reached our destination and I stepped out of the cab. "It is not just Stamford and wife who are eager to see you tonight, but several other friends and acquaintances who have not yet had the opportunity to discuss _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ with its celebrated author."

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. I should not have been surprised; I do not have reason to mention it in my stories very often, but he occasionally demonstrates his fondness and loyalty to me with gestures like this one. He can be extraordinarily considerate, more than I deserve at times.

"Well, those who were available on short notice," he amended. "I had to work quickly. It is a smaller group than it ought to be."

We had reached the Stamford residence, which was, as Holmes had promised, ablaze with light. Even from the pavement I could hear the laughter inside.

"Will you come in, Holmes? Please?"

"For a few minutes," Holmes said, clearly reluctant. 

"That would mean a lot to me," I said. "Thank you." I would not embarrass him with effusive gratitude, but I hoped he understood that I meant to express my appreciation of his friendship and his efforts on my behalf, not just his presence at the evening's event. He was and always would be, I hoped, my greatest friend and closest ally, wherever our individual paths took us.

***

Postscript  
May 1903

We set things right again after that evening, Holmes and I, settling back into easy camaraderie and comfortable evenings in front of the fire. I began to write again, beginning with a story about Holmes’ dramatic return from certain death at the Reichenbach Fall. Holmes rolled his eyes but did not take exception to my activities. Holmes himself solved several puzzling cases, including a mystery involving the Sultan of Turkey that I longed to write up as soon as he granted permission. Increasingly, he investigated without my help, as my practice was thriving and writing took up a larger and larger part of my time. Within a year I had moved house—first to rooms in Queen Anne Street and then to the warmth of a cottage in Hendon with my new wife Clara, a cousin of Anna whom I had met at the dinner party that evening in St Albans. Holmes, for his part, soon retired to a cottage in Sussex. 

Last time we parted ways, he had taken comfort in his seven per cent solution. This time, he seemed at peace, and our final visit was warm and untroubled. Like me, he seemed ready for a new adventure. He had promised an invitation as soon as the house was furnished.

I had almost forgotten the incident that sparked the series of events leading to this new state of affairs when one morning I sat down at the breakfast table to read of William Thompson’s exoneration in the St Pancras affair. Miss Bennet had written to me several times to report on her fiance's health and the encouraging progress of the trial, but I had not expected such good news to arrive so soon. 

"We shall have a wedding to attend before summer," I said to Clara, recounting the essentials of the original encounter—though not, of course, the undercurrents that had initially offended her and surprised me. "I predict they will wed quickly and emigrate to America as they planned. An excellent start to the day, to read this news."

"It may not be the only good news," Clara said. "Did you see the envelope that came in the post? I think it is from your old friend, from Sherlock Holmes."

It was, in fact, an envelope from Holmes. There were only two items inside: a succinct invitation to visit him at his house in Sussex in two Saturdays, and a recent copy of _The Strand,_ in which my latest story, "The Blanched Soldier," had appeared. It was one of the few stories I had ever written in Holmes’ voice. Had someone alerted him to the liberties I had taken? Had I somehow offended him? I thumbed through the magazine, puzzled, until I saw found my story and saw his spidery handwriting near the title: "See correction below." Two paragraphs below, his writing appeared again next to a line I never expected he would read:

_The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association._

Holmes had crossed out the word "selfish" and scrawled one word of response in the margin: _Never._

***

_That is the end of the story of the encounter at St Pancras Station. No magazine will publish it, no eager reader will rush to purchase it, it, no one will speak of it to their friends. It affords readers no opportunity to admire the courage, the sharp wit, or the rigorous scientific method of the great detective. It remains, however, near and dear to me in this second, quieter half of my life—the record of a single, chance encounter that offered me a glimpse into my own heart and that of Sherlock Holmes._


End file.
